


The Alchemy of Cigarettes

by meshkol (ashernorton)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_kinkfest, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 19:43:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13910853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashernorton/pseuds/meshkol
Summary: Something about seeing Draco smoking makes him want to drop to his knees.





	The Alchemy of Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gracerene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracerene/gifts).



> Hey look! A fill for the kinkfest! I suppose that’s one way to skip my happy arse into contributing HP-fandom fic, after lurking for the past 121645115645431.2 years. Ish. Give or take a lot, with a particular emphasis on the former. Gotta admit that this fandom is quite intimidating, considering all the brilliant writing/art out there, so I hope I don’t disappoint.
> 
> Prompt was ‘Smoking Kink’, with a supplementary prompt of ‘Something about seeing Draco smoking makes him want to drop to his knees.’ Which, I mean, yes please. Wee bit of hand kink too (because in my brain the two go hand-in-hand, pun somewhat intended), and rather enthusiastic, if slightly rough, oral sex. This was supposed to be a quick, 2-3k PWP but then Albus and I got wordy and suddenly it turned into this 10k+...thing. Anywho, written for [gracerene](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gracerene/profile), as she is the prompter, and beta'd by [marshview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marshview), as they got this into publishing shape. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

_One  
28 June 2025_

" _That feeling of breeze, the alchemy of the cigarettes and the alcohol, those together are like a worm hole furrowed through my brain._ " – Rob Hart, City of Rose

The first time it happens, it's because Albus can't sleep.

He's been tossing and turning and counting broomsticks for what seems like ages, though he knows it's only half-one, gradually growing more frustrated the longer sleep evades him. He normally doesn't have a problem with managing at least six hours – he's a firm believer that more sleep is better than less, and generally can sleep half a day away if he's not disturbed – but tonight it's just not happening.

It's not that his brain is whirling out of control, as he's had a fun, relaxing day off with Scorpius and doesn't have anything on his mind that would keep him up. The night is pleasantly cool, despite the fact that it's the middle of summer, and he has the windows open so he can feel the wind and hear the rain that falls outside. He hasn't had caffeine in a while, for he cuts himself off by the time it's two in the afternoon, if only so he can get those glorious hours of sleep at a decent hour. He's not _itchy_ either, in the way that he usually gets when he hasn't shagged or been shagged for an extended period of time; it's only been a few months since he's had a regular sex life (and the breakup with Dorian had been amicable, so no real upset there either), which means he's not gagging for it. Probably will within the next few months, but at the present moment, he's content with being unattached.

Eyes wide open, he takes in the downpour outside, the sight blurry without his glasses but lovely nonetheless, and debates on whether he should call an elf for a cup of chamomile to nurse in bed or take a leisurely walk through the Manor. He's comfortable with either, considering he's spent more time here than a lot of other places in his life. When he and Scorpius had become fast friends that first year at Hogwarts, he had found himself as a common fixture between his family home in Dorset and the Malfoy residence in Wiltshire, though only once the summer hols had come round. After all, it had taken both Mr Malfoy and Albus's dad those ten months to come to terms with their sons being close friends, let alone feeling comfortable enough for them to pop over at all hours for a visit when they were home.

Because of that, he can walk through the Manor with easy familiarity. He's spent a significant amount of time getting to know Scorpius's family, his elves, every nook and cranny of the grand home and gardens, and so he has no qualms about walking a path through his favourite parts of the estate, a cup of tea in his hand and in nothing but his pyjamas. It's not like he hasn't walked the halls at night before, after all – though to be fair, it had been for the pure novelty of it, rather than restlessness.

Decided, he sighs under his breath, reaches for his glasses, and then heads towards the windows of his room (and it really is _his_ room, despite being nineteen and the proud renter of a quaint flat in Inverness). He doesn't bother with a dressing gown, as it's too hot for one and he's never been fond of them anyway. His comfortable black and green plaid pyjamas bottoms and a threadbare Slytherin Quidditch shirt is fine enough for Albus in this familiar setting. As he feels the breeze against his face, he calls quietly for an elf and politely requests a cup of tea, no caffeine. As he waits, he just observes the rain, the dark swaying of the trees in the wind, the absence of light that makes all the shadows look more ominous than comforting. He can smell the freshly mown grass, the fresh scent of ozone and rainwater, and the sweet whisper of Mrs Narcissa's roses. It smells like home, honestly, and full of memories, and he really does love this place despite the horrors its halls once witnessed.

But Albus doesn't like thinking about that. It was a long time ago, and it doesn't change the fact that Scorpius had grown up happy here, without hardship or despair. As strict as Mr Malfoy had been in the past, Scorpius and Albus both have good memories here. Albus himself remembers the joy and the contentment he's experienced here, and the kinship of a best friend as well as his indulgent but stern family, so he doesn't dwell on the days before he was born. All he can do is accept that his extended family won't come here themselves, because he genuinely understands that those types of memories are more painful for people who had actually experienced them first-hand.

When the elf delivers the tea and he's cooled it down enough to drink a third of it down (it wouldn't do to spill it on himself, after all), he finally meanders his way out of the room. He closes the heavy door behind him and makes his way to the lower levels of the Manor, preferring the common areas rather than the sleeping wing.

The soft scent of chamomile mixing with the familiar wood polish and citrus, he takes in the dark, shadowed halls and rooms of Scorpius's family home, without misstep despite the absence of light, letting his mind wander as he brushes his fingers along bannisters and cool flower petals in their vases. It's the first time he's been at the Manor since that week after he and Scorpius had graduated Hogwarts a year ago, Scorpius at the top of his class and already eager to move on to his Charms speciality whilst Albus pondered what to do with the rest of his life.

Albus hadn't been a particularly gifted student, not because he wasn't smart, but because he had never felt enough passion to really click with a subject (like Scorpius with Charms) nor experienced the determination to be good at everything (like Rose). Career days were torture for Albus, because he hadn't really figured anything out yet – eventually he had just told his Head of House that he was looking into being a house husband, and it had come as such a shock that she hadn't even forced him to take on a plethora of N.E.W.T.s during his last year. He had barely passed his classes – gaining his marks for Potions, Defence, Charms, and Transfiguration – but it had been a struggle to muster up the energy or will to turn in his homework, let alone study for exams. If it hadn't been for Scorpius and Rose, the buggering workaholics that they were (and are), he probably would've been sent down.

It had taken him a few months of faffing about in Scotland before he had grudgingly accompanied Rose, Scorpius, Teddy, Victoire, and the Scamander twins to a political rally calling for equal wage reform in Wizarding Britain, and it was there that he had found his calling.

He isn't sure _why_ , really, he feels so passionate about political work and social issues. It befuddled the vast majority of his family, Aunt Hermione notwithstanding, but he utterly loves it. He likes the idea of rallying for a just cause, pulling on his best robes so he can lobby for whatever he feels is right to the elected officials and the Wizarding public as a whole, feeling that unmeasurable joy when his chosen platform manages to defeat an opposition and change the laws of an outdated society with nothing but his heart, voice, and hard work. It's the most satisfying thing he's ever done, and he wouldn't change a single thing about his life.

Though he wouldn't mind having a man to share it with, but he's patient. He has the next hundred or so years to settle down, so he's not keen on rushing anything.

Speaking of which, he's only in Wiltshire because there's going to be a large rally on gay marriage in the Wizarding quarter of Trowbridge on Sunday. Being queer is considered normal in the Wizarding world, always has been, but despite this, marriage is still solely between a man and a woman based off old-fashioned heritage laws requiring heirs. Personally, Albus hasn't an inkling to get married, but there are a lot of people who dearly wish to do so, and like hell Albus will sit this one out despite not feeling the urge to get hitched himself. If they can manage to bring it up to the Wizengamot _and_ get gay marriage legalised, then it'll open countless doors in the future: passing of estates and finances to gay spouses, normalisation of alternative contraception, and legalisation of gay adoptions, to name a few. It's important, and despite being exhausted from seven months of almost daily rallies across the British Isles, he's utterly thrilled to be doing it.

He's pulled out of his thoughts when he smells something strange in the air.

He can't immediately place it, but it's out of the ordinary in this home, where the only smells he's ever noticed over the past near-decade of frequenting the Manor are cleaning solutions, polish, flower arrangements, food, or the wisp of perfumes and cologne. It smells like carbon and fire against paper, slightly musty and stale but with a hint of burnt sage. It's subtle, but familiar and intoxicating just the same, and Albus takes a deep breath in a vain attempt to place where he's smelt it before.

His first thought is that perhaps Mr Malfoy is brewing, as he's wont to do when he suffers from insomnia, but Mr Malfoy only brews in the dungeon labs and this scent is coming from what seems like the library. He can see the flickering flames from the cracked doorway of said library, and his second thought is that something, maybe a candle or a fire, is burning. However, it's not the crisp, ashy smell of firewood (and he knows for a fact that there's smoke filtering charms on the library fireplace to keep the smoke from damaging the books) and there's no waxy undertone to indicate a candle. Besides, the only time he's ever seen candles lit in this house is during dinner, if the lights are needed to ward off the darkness of the grounds.

Tentatively, he pushes the door open just a smidge more and peeks into the library.

It's his favourite room in the house, and always has been. He's not one for school, but he _is_ a connoisseur of books if he does say so himself, and the vast numbers of books and scrolls and tomes are titillating. It's not just that though – he loves the two-storey space lined with rich mahogany bookshelves and the occasional painting or motif when there's enough wall space to allow art; the colourful spines of literature organised by subject and then alphabetically; the magnificently carved fireplace accented with white marble and silver metals; the plush, purple chairs scattered sporadically throughout the room with their accompanying mahogany tables; the light grey walls with a delicate silver texture speckled throughout; the deep hardwood floors occasionally broken by soft grey rugs. He loves coming in here, reading history books with his platform's plans scattered around him in bundles of parchment, a cup of tea in his hand and the cosy warmth of the fire at his front. When he had been younger and fighting with James or arguing with his mother had been the norm (as teenagers were infamous for), he had often popped over to the Manor through the Floo and had decompressed in the library until Scorpius or Mr Malfoy had urged him back home.

Despite all of this though, his eyes barely even take in the familiar comfort of the library because of something else entirely, his empty tea cup nearly falling out of his grasp.

It's the first time since arriving in Wiltshire that he's seen Mr Malfoy, as he'd been in London for a fortnight on business, and it's been just about a year since Albus has laid eyes on him. He's been much too busy to do more than exchange a few owls a month, and to be fair, Mr Malfoy's always been a more distant sort of bloke. Albus has never considered him a second father, or even _Scorpius's_ father really, but more of a...pleasant acquaintance, perhaps. Kind of. It's always been confusing with Scorpius's parents. Mrs Malfoy, when she had been alive, had been doting and kind, but she had usually been ill of health and on bed rest. Mr Malfoy had spent a lot of time with her, and the subsequent result of that was Scorpius (and by extension Albus) has always seen him as more of a stern roommate more than a parental figure. Of course, Mr Malfoy loves Scorpius without a doubt, and had parented him before Hogwarts, but since school, he'd always taken a backseat approach to Scorpius's upbringing, only involving himself only on the rare occasions Scorpius had gotten in trouble. In the end, for as long as Albus has known him, Mr Malfoy has always been the cordial, slightly aloof, firm, but ultimately easy-going and supportive adult in the house, rather than what Albus would generally consider a 'father'.

Albus is of the opinion that it's done nothing but good for Scorpius. Albus is familiar with that as well, considering his own dad is more of a friend than a father really, which kept the resentment from blossoming in that particular relationship. After his dad's upbringing with his dreadful aunt and uncle, Harry Potter had always been more relaxed and friendly than anything else (though he could turn on 'Dad Mode' if needed, as Lily calls it, and it had usually been directed at James). His dad wasn't fond of disciplining or scolding, and still isn't to this day. It's always been Albus's mum that's been the stern, strict disciplinarian in the Potter house, which had been an utter pain to grow up with to be honest. His mother is even more stubborn than his dad, if it can be believed, and Albus had knocked heads with her constantly when growing up.

All of this runs through his head within only a few seconds, and it really helps with compartmentalising this moment, because right now all he feels is arousal.

He's not usually the type to feel such a thing when registering visual stimuli. Instead, Albus has only ever felt arousal after a period where he's gotten to know a person, no matter how long an acquaintance, because he's hardwired to feel attracted to the attributes of people – how they think, what they believe, how their sense of humour works, how they observe the things around them, and how confident they are with themselves. But that doesn't change the fact that he's feeling it now (though he _has_ known Draco Malfoy for half his life so perhaps it's not that unexpected), that rush of blood in his veins which inevitably finds a place deep in his abdomen, simmering and heady.

Mr Malfoy – his best friend's fucking _dad_ – is standing on the balcony leading to a seating area facing the hedge maze and outlying wood, watching the rain fall from behind the waterproof, invisible barrier that protects the library from humidity and the elements outside. He's leaning on the black railing in profile, his tall, lean body clothed in impeccable grey and black fabrics that hug all the right places and accentuate his fit, long limbs. His pale hair, usually slicked back so severely that it looks like it's receding, is loose, the long strands on the top falling into his eyes and caressing his temple and the shorn sides and back shining like liquid gold from the warm, but dying fire in the hearth. And in the midst of this, the long, thin, elegant fingers of his right hand hold a delicate, half-empty wine glass, while his left hand deftly holds a lit Muggle cigarette, the top glowing dimly as ash gradually covers the embers.

Albus watches Mr Malfoy's profile as that hand brings the fag to his shapely lips languidly, culminating in a deep drag that Albus can see from the doorway. His chest expands, filling out that form-fitting, immaculate, deep charcoal shirt, and then the cigarette is moved away, his chin tilting up slightly away from the fag's curl of smoke and accenting the long column of his throat. He slowly exhales through his mouth, the smoke almost non-existent, and manoeuvres the fag in his fingers so he can tap the top of it with an index finger, knocking off the accumulating ash with deft, familiar movements.

Albus feels like he can't breathe, the arousal from watching this quiet moment almost too much, too sudden, too confusing. He wants to run away but he can't get his feet to move, a low buzzing in his ears and his palms twitching because of the want to _touch_. Horrifyingly, he can feel himself getting hard, and that's really not what he needs right now. This is Draco Malfoy, fit as hell and nonsensically intelligent and sharp as a tack and normally _exactly_ Albus's type, but he's also Scorpius's dad ( _in name only, and mostly a familiar acquaintance_ , a voice in his head whispers) and twenty-five years older ( _Dorian had been seventeen years older than you, and Marcus before had been older by fifteen_ , the voice sing-songs) and he really can't believe that his own subconscious is arguing with him.

Frankly, Albus refuses to even contemplate this unexpected, vaguely horrifying development until he's a few sheets into the wind and alone in his flat, and with a hard shake of his head and a last lingering look, he forces himself to leave the doorway, quickly but silently shuffling his way back to his room.

It seems like it takes him forever, as his erection is hampering his usual stride, but he finally reaches his destination, placing the cup on the desk absently before falling back onto his bed with a long exhale. His entire body is _itching_ now, skin hot and hands sweaty and prick aching like a brand against his stomach. He can't get the image of Mr Malfoy out of his head, that lean form so tantalising and those _hands_ and the sensual sight of his lips wrapping around the fag-end and breathing out the lungful of heady, musky-smelling smoke, and _fuck_ but he can't help but wrap his hand around his prick, pulling until he's lost in the sensation of it. He wants to run back to the library, walk through that door, and fall to his knees, unwrapping that cock from its confines and sucking it down to the root while Mr Malfoy watches him with those icy grey eyes, just _watches_ , taking drags off his cigarette until it's down to the filter and he can flick it away and bury his elegant hands in Albus's hair as he climaxes down Albus's throat, coming and coming and coming and—

Albus turns, buries his face into a pillow, and _screams_.

When it's over and he's finally coming down, right on the edge of deep slumber, he distantly thinks that wanking before bed is one hell of a way to get to sleep, even if the preceding events had been utterly world-changing.

—

When he wakes up, sometime before two, he doesn't remember what happened the night before.

He _does_ remember when Scorpius pulls him into the informal dining room for a late lunch, though, when they step into the room and Mr Malfoy is sitting at the small table, a cup of tea in one hand and the _Prophet_ in the other, clad in the most delicious ensemble Albus has probably seen in his life. Mr Malfoy's in pressed black trousers lined with a deep grey, hugging his slim thighs and shaping his calves like a work of art. Albus can see the matte-grey dress shoes on Mr Malfoy's feet, and between the line of his trousers and his shoes, Albus can see the thin grey socks over Mr Malfoy's pronounced ankles. He has a fitted silver shirt with a few buttons undone at the collar, pearl and shiny in the mid-afternoon sunlight shining through the windows, and a thin, charcoal grey tie undone around his neck, both ends draping down his narrow chest.

The only thing that detracts from the otherwise _perfect_ countenance of one Draco Malfoy is his hair, slicked back in the way that Albus remembers from his youth, the white-blond combined with his almost too-pale skin making him look like he's balding and making his face look sharper, more severe. It really doesn't do him justice, in Albus's opinion (not that his opinion means much, to be honest).

Instantly, Albus can feel his skin bloom into a ferocious flush, the _itch_ making his skin feel like it's stretched too thin over his bones.

"Morning, Father," Scorpius greets, mercifully not noticing Albus's expression, and takes a seat at the table. Albus joins him to his left, if only so his friend and Mr Malfoy can't see his face as long as he hides behind the wild curls of his hair, and wills his hands to stop shaking so he can gather his soup and salad without fearing an accidental spill. "You're looking remarkably put together today," Scorpius continues, serving himself a cuppa and doctoring it with milk and sugar.

"Political gala at the Ministry," Mr Malfoy drawls, not looking up from his paper.

It still captures Albus's attention. "The one on tax reform?" he asks, a twinge of excitement in his tone that he doesn't bother to hide. He would love to go to it, honestly, but he's going to be otherwise disposed with the rally prep this evening and he can't manage both. He's the co-head of the entire Wiltshire event and can't miss it.

"Indeed," the Malfoy patriarch murmurs around the rim of his teacup.

Despite the _itch_ he can feel under his skin, he finds himself sufficiently distracted. "That's brilliant, Mr Malfoy!" he exclaims, finally feeling steady enough to reach for the food now that he's going to be in his element. "I wanted to go myself, mostly to make a ruckus as I'm known for, but with the rally in Trowbridge tomorrow, I haven't the time. Still, it's great that you're going – there are a lot of fairly progressive Ministry officials that are scheduled to attend, of course, and then Aunt Hermione will be there in her official capacity, but it's excellent that you, a pure-blood that is politically neutral and part of the Twenty-Eight, are electing to attend. It sends a great message to everyone who's wary of voting for the legislation next spring."

"For fuck's sake, can we _not_?" Scorpius groans into his greens.

Mr Malfoy is looking at Albus now, and Albus dearly hopes that he can pass off his flushed cheeks as a response to his enthusiasm rather than the _itch_ that he feels. Yes, it's not nearly as visceral or strong as it was the previous night, so thankfully his prick is behaving, but it's still there. Albus hopes that it's not so much _Mr Malfoy_ than it is a drop-dead gorgeous man with sexy hands smoking a cigarette, and isn't that food for thought?

He makes a mental note to test this theory the next time he has a day off, whenever _that'll_ be.

Then Mr Malfoy says, "I agree, though it's just as much for networking as it is the legislation itself." He pauses, takes a sip of his tea, and then sets his cup down in exchange for a fork, which he uses to spear a spinach leaf. Albus's eyes can't help but be drawn to those hands – long and narrow fingers, the protrusions of bluish veins under the pale skin, the sparse, white-blond hairs on the backs that almost blend in – and Albus tries his damndest to hide the flush that blooms once again in his cheeks.

He absently rubs at his right eye with the side of his index finger as if his contacts are bothering him – it's a good way to directly avoid Mr Malfoy's gaze – as Mr Malfoy continues quietly, "And I'm self-conscious about my age enough as it is, not to mention that you are almost twenty years of age and a familiar of the family. Please, call me Draco, and leave the polite address for my late father."

Albus's breath catches in his throat, heart pounding, and simply nods, not trusting himself to speak.

 

* * *

 

_Two  
17 October 2025_

" _Smoking had become my favorite thing in the world to do. It was like having instant comfort, no matter where or when._ " – Augusten Burroughs, Running With Scissors

The second time it happens, it's because Scorpius ends up in St Mungo's.

Albus is enjoying himself at a Burrow Sunday lunch, the only time he really gets to see his family with all the activism he's been involved in lately, when the missive comes on in the claws of a needle-tailed swift at incredible speed. It's James that sees it first, a small exclamation and a gesture at the rapidly approaching bird, and just by the quickness of it Albus knows that's it's one of the Malfoy birds. They're one of the only families in Britain that use such speedy carriers, and only when they need to deliver information very quickly indeed, not to mention that they're the only family that'd be sending a letter to the Weasley abode. It makes Albus's heart race with apprehension and the beginnings of true fear, because it's certainly not a good sign if Scorpius, Draco, or Mrs Narcissa is sending a speeder to the Weasley abode.

He doesn't bother getting out of his seat, simply waiting with bated breath for the swift to make its dive, which it does at such a speed that the wind of its wings ruffles everyone's hair when it passes. It drops the letter and then rushes off again with a loud caw in its wake, but Albus doesn't really register it, ripping open the roll of parchment with a quick charm and letting his eyes scan the few sentences in Rose's familiar loopy handwriting, albeit shaky and imprecise:

_Scorp's been in an accident, and it's really bad. He'll make it, but he's in theatre and I really need you here right now because I can't stop fucking shaking. -Rose_

"Fuck!" Albus shouts, and scrambles up, knocking over three glasses in his haste. The alarm at the table is palpable, so he explains in a hurried rush, "Scorp's been in an accident, Rose says. He's at St Mungo's and she's freaking out."

There's a mad rush then, but Albus simply turns on his heel and Apparates to the St Mungo's atrium. He barely missteps, eyes already scanning for a Welcome Witch as he hears the rest of his family pop into existence behind him, as they are about as concerned about Scorpius (since he'll be part of the Weasley family soon). He sees the witch, in her typical yellow robes, just seconds after he hears his dad call out, "We're here for Scorpius Malfoy. We need an escort to his floor." Albus is quite thankful for once that his dad is here, using that infamous scar on his forehead and his titles of _Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement_ and _The Man Who Vanquished_ , and that Aunt Hermione is the Minister of Magic, because it means that the massive progression is escorted personally by a Healer who'd been in the atrium checking out a patient. Albus shoots his dad a worried and quick, but no less thankful smile, which is returned by a comforting hand on his shoulder.

They're eventually separated, the vast majority of them being herded to the fifth floor to lie in wait while a group of four – Albus, of course, but also Aunt Hermione, Uncle Ron, and his dad – is led to the smaller waiting room outside of the fourth floor's operating theatre.

Rose comes barrelling from her chair with a loud, heart-wrenching sob, her face swollen and blotchy from crying, and she throws her arms around him with enough speed that he nearly topples over. Eyes wide, he takes in the rest of the room's inhabitants, Draco and Mrs Narcissa, as he runs a comforting hand through Rose's wild, tangled hair.

"What happened?" Hermione questions gently.

His dad goes up to Mrs Narcissa, sitting down in the chair beside her and putting a soft hand on hers in solidarity, his sharp green eyes taking in every micro-expression on her face with an Auror's eye. Softly, Mrs Narcissa replies, "He was conducting his Charms tutoring as is part of his curriculum, and one of the children aimed her Bonding Charm too low. It fused Scorpius's entire forearm and hand to the desk. Before he or the Master could reverse it, one of the higher form children thought it would be...wise to use the Reductor Curse to remove the table." There's a series of gasps, and Rose's sobs increase in volume, before Mrs Narcissa finishes, "It resulted in quite a bit of damage to Scorpius's arm and upper torso. They are re-growing his arm and repairing the damaged organs and musculature of his right side as we speak."

" _Fucking_ hell," Uncle Ron breathes, falling heavily into a chair and rubbing his hands against his face.

And so they wait.

After a few hours, a Healer joins them with a tired smile, telling them that Scorpius is out of theatre and will be moved to Ward Sixty-Two, his limbs, muscles, and organs regrown or mended, and tells them that they can go to his room in approximately thirty minutes. Despite knowing that Scorpius would be fine, there's still a collective sigh of relief, as it's one thing to know it in abstract but another entirely to have the verified consensus from a certified Mediwizard.

Albus's dad kisses the top of Rose's head and grips Albus's shoulder before he takes his leave, off to take some of the Weasley family (and extended relatives) home now that Scorpius is on the mend. Albus doesn't figure that many of them, if any, will actually leave until they've at least popped their heads in to make sure themselves, and sure enough, over the next few hours there's a steady trickle of visitors to say their piece about being glad Scorpius is okay.

He looks it too. Laid in the single bed, the only patient in the ward, Scorpius is sleeping deeply, his regrown arm and right upper torso slightly pink from the procedure but in good shape, looking just like before the accident. There's a potion drip in his left arm, steadily administering pain relievers and muscle strengthening solutions, and yet another attached into the skin around his right clavicle, the pale green potion immediately identified as the improved Skele-Gro (James is practically the reason the company was still going strong, no doubt, the accident-prone idiot).

The Healer had told them that they were keeping him unconscious for two days to strengthen the new bones, muscles, and ligaments, so predictably Albus is a bit bored after Scorpius's visitors had finally tapered off, only Rose, Albus, and Draco remaining. The latter had slipped out about fifteen minutes previously, leaving only with a tired declaration that he was off for some tea. He had opted out of leaving with Mrs Narcissa for the Manor, and Albus wonders if he'll stay at St Mungo's for the next two days by Scorpius's bedside. Salazar knows that Rose isn't going anywhere, having already cleared it with her Transfiguration Master, and the idea of Rose and Draco both commandeering empty beds in the Spell Damage ward to sleep almost side-by-side is amusing. It wouldn't be surprising though – Rose and Scorpius have been dating for almost five years, and engaged for one of those, and Draco is Scorpius's father, despite their rather new-age approach to that relationship.

Albus isn't going to be staying, that's for sure. There's only so much time he can spend in Draco Malfoy's presence before the _itch_ becomes unbearable, and he's terrified of doing something untoward to scratch it, especially now that he knows that Scorpius is okay and on the mend.

"I'm out," Albus tells Rose, who glances away from Scorpius's face for a moment so she can shoot him a warm smile.

"Thanks for coming," she whispers, and then looks back at Scorpius's slackened features.

He slips out, heading towards the tearoom upstairs so he can bid a polite goodbye to Draco. He makes quick progress, only getting a few curious or excited glances from visitors and employees until they realise that he's a bit too young (and scar-less) to be Harry Potter. With the patience of years practising his poker face in regards to the public, he simply smiles courteously and continues on his way.

The tearoom is a massive space that takes up the entire top floor of the St Mungo's facility, a meeting place for all people who visit patients not in theatre. It's a cosy space, golden walls with violet seating, and there are small tables littered about for visitors to eat and drink when they need to. There are quite a few people mulling about, talking in quiet whispers or sitting in silence with the standard cup of tea in front of them, but a cursory glance around does not reveal a platinum blond anywhere. The closest is yellow hair, like spun sunlight, on a young girl of perhaps twelve, so he just does another scan before coming to the conclusion that Draco's in the loo or something.

Until he turns and spots a flash of platinum on the balcony, looking towards the Thames.

He can't tell from his position if it _is_ Draco or not, and he refuses to be rude by leaving without saying goodbye, so he makes his way to the glass doors, stepping out into the dreary (but thankfully waterproof) balcony.

He inhales sharply, because this is so eerily familiar – Draco in blacks and greys, watching the rain as he languidly smokes a cigarette – but at the same time infinitely worse. This time, he's draped in one of the deep purple chairs, the colour magnificent against his pale skin and the hues of his clothes, and this time...well, this time Draco sees him instantly.

"Albus," he murmurs, pale grey smoke seeping through his lips as he speaks, and _bloody fuck_ is that the most enthralling thing he's ever seen in his fucking _life_. His eyes are half-lidded, the icy grey dark beneath his deceptively dark lashes, and Albus so dearly wants to turn away and _run_ before Draco can see the effect he's having.

"Draco," Albus returns, his voice a bit too breathy for comfort. He clears his throat, mortified and horribly aroused, before he manages in a slightly clearer tone, "I wanted to say goodbye. I've an early day tomorrow."

Draco hums, tapping his fag with his long index finger delicately, and then replies, "Ah, the calling of social justice." His eyes are scanning Albus, his expression unreadable and intoxicating as he takes in every line of Albus's person. He is so relieved that he's wearing robes, considering the rather sudden and humiliating erection Albus feels aching between his thighs, because he hasn't an idea how he would explain something like that in _St-fucking-Mungo's_.

This is _not_ the place to have a stiffy. It's _not_.

He can't help it.

Draco lifts his elegant hand up again, slowly wrapping shapely lips around the fag-end and taking a leisurely drag, his chest expanding in his cashmere grey jumper enticingly, and Albus has to get the fuck out of here.

"Nothing could keep you away from it," Draco says, smoke framing the words and his sharp features. _You could_ , Albus thinks, feeling delirious and completely incapable of tearing his eyes away from Draco's mouth and that slender cigarette hovering by his cheekbone. Albus can't answer, the _itch_ unbearable under his skin, and his knees ache with the urge to fall upon them, mouth positively watering for the heft of Draco's cock in his mouth. It's sheer, unmitigated _want_ , and he feels like he's on fire.

Then, to his horror, Draco's eyes sharpen, flickering across Albus's face, and his nostrils flare, like he can smell the heady arousal rolling off Albus in waves. He sits up, his left forearm braced on the arm of the chair so the cigarette hangs off the side, and he says quietly, "Albus..."

He _has_ to get the fuck out of here.

"I'm—" he chokes out, stumbling backwards as his own eyes dart between Draco's mouth and eyes (eyes that are widened with realisation, and Albus is so _embarrassed_ ). "I'm sorry, I have—I have to go now, give Scorp my love, I'm sorry." It comes out as a hoarse jumble, the tone just as much of an indicator of Albus's arousal as showing his hard prick would be, and he turns away. He accidentally bumps into the open door but he doesn't register the pain – only _getoutgetoutgetout_ – simply taking off, awkwardly due to the erection and without grace due to the _itch_ raging in his bloodstream.

Mercifully, Draco doesn't follow.

—

He falls over when he appears outside the gates of Malfoy Manor.

He's breathing so erratically that he feels faint, but he can't stand the idea of the three jumps it would take to get to Inverness. Instead, he rushes through the gates, a flash of awareness in his head as the wards accept his entrance, and once he's past the barrier of the grounds, he Apparates again, this time directly into his room.

Instantly, he's tearing off his clothes, too hot to stand being in them, and when he's naked he falls onto the bed, Summoning a vial of lube. He coats his fingers hastily after doing a quick glove charm, panting at the brazen need roaring through his veins, and then presses two fingers into himself as he wraps his free hand around his prick, letting out a desperate moan at the slight relief he feels. He can't hit his prostate at this angle but he doesn't need to; all he needs is to get off, _now_ , or he's going to fucking shake out of his skin.

It seems like it takes ages, certainly long enough that he has to grit his teeth to keep moving his fingers despite the strain on his wrist. After a long moment, though, his fingers finally manage to brush his prostate as his other hand massages at the tip, the pad of his thumb pressing into his slit, and suddenly his back is arching, a silent, almost surprised groan spilling from his lips as comes, each pulse warm and oily against his fingers.

He slowly eases back onto the bed, gasping and buzzing with endorphins, Draco's face and body still in his head, and wonders if he's going mad.

 

* * *

 

_Three  
31 December 2025_

" _That is a terrifically intimate thing, you know? Letting a stranger light your cigarette. Leaning forward so he can hold a flame to your lips. Pausing to breathe in before you pull back again._ " – Elizabeth Wein, The Pearl Thief

The third time it happens, it's...well, it just happens.

Albus is at a posh New Year's party that a Wizengamot member is hosting, having been personally invited the day after the gay marriage law passed. He's rather drunk and wobbly, keeping to the edges of the dance floor or the garden so he doesn't get cajoled into taking a few spins; he's inherited his father's abhorrent dancing skills, so he tends to avoid the whole possibility entirely.

He's been chatting up a good-looking chap who spends a lot of time talking with his hands, cigarette dangling in his fingers, and it's delicious. It's not quite right though, because while the bloke is fit and blond and interesting enough to talk to, he's not really what Albus is looking for. His name is Andrew, the nephew of Pansy Parkinson-Nott (who's fucking about somewhere, looking sharp as fuck and attracting everything that moves – even Albus, who's as queer as Voldemort in a ballerina outfit, had gaped a bit, enticed despite himself), but despite his impeccable manners and heated looks, he's just _wrong_.

Still, Albus needs to scratch the _itch_ , and since he apparently has a smoking fetish (capnolagnia, as he's discovered) and Andrew is clearly willing, he'll just have to do.

He lets Andrew run his fingers through Albus's thick hair, the smoke curling around their heads, as his gaze wanders round the garden. There are quite a few couples snogging in corners and benches, almost all of them queer or some variant of it, and the atmosphere is heady. He's quite warm in his green dress robes, as the entire property is absolutely saturated with warming charms or merrily burning firepits, and the alcohol rushing through his blood is assisting in that regard. He's not quite aroused yet, though he finds Andrew interesting enough to manage it if he decides to take him to bed, but he's still thrumming with energy.

It's about twenty to eleven, Andrew having left to top off their drinks in the estate, when Albus spots him.

Albus has been quite obviously avoiding the Malfoys, even Scorpius. He's seen his best friend a few times, but only on neutral territory, and they're both so busy that anything other than the occasional lunch is just too difficult to schedule. Albus also has trouble looking Scorpius in the eye as well. Scorpius and Draco look remarkably like each other, yes, but at the same time, it's not really about that because they're total opposites: Draco is tall and regal while Scorpius is gangly and doesn't give a shit; Draco is dry and drawling while Scorpius is full of easy cheer and excitement; Draco is calm unless his temper is triggered while Scorpius has never been mad in his entire life. And then there's the smoking thing, but that's a given. Regardless, despite their physical similarities and differences, Albus can't help but think of Draco when he sees Scorpius.

That's not even bringing the awkwardness into it, either. Scorpius knows that Albus has a bit of a pash on someone, but for the first time in their friendship, Albus has kept his mouth shut (after a quick " _Oh_ fuck _no, it's not you Scorpius, for fuck's sake, don't make me sick up_ "). It's resulted in a lot of teasing at his expense, because now Scorpius and Rose are under the impression that he's _In Love_ , complete with trilling songs and notebooks filled with hearts and sonnets full of yearning. Or something. He'd tuned it out after Rose had accused him of being in love with Teddy, of all fucking people.

Not that Teddy's bad to look at, though.

He's only exchanged owls with Mrs Narcissa once since Scorpius has been out of hospital and he hasn't sought her out on his days off either, like is customary between them. It's unfortunate, because he's quite fond of her, but he can't look her in the eye either. Especially since she's wicked good at Legilimency, and Albus really doesn't want to be at the other end of that, not with how his mind focussed on _Draco-Draco-Draco_ all the time. Mrs Narcissa is a sharp woman and she'll know in half a second flat that something is bothering him. She has morals, yes, but she's also a mother, and she will do just about anything to help the people she loves, Albus amongst that number.

As for Draco himself, well, that's fairly obvious. He _knows_ now, knows that Albus is attracted to him, and it's humiliating. If Albus was in Draco's position, he'd probably be horrified.

None of that matters now though, because even drunk, Albus can identify a Malfoy in a heartbeat, especially _this_ particular Malfoy. And it's not like he can just slip into a side room and look for a way out without being spotted, because Draco's eyes are already intent on him from across the garden, and he's making quick progress to Albus's location.

He looks good too, almost ridiculously so. Form-fitting black trousers, shiny black shoes, a silver shirt with no tie and a few buttons undone at the top, and his black robe, which billows behind him at the speed he's moving. His hair is slicked back, but it almost looks as if he's been running his fingers through it, a few errant blond strands falling forward into his eyes. Everyone is watching him, captivated by the intensity of him, and Albus stops breathing, his hands gripping his thighs painfully and his lips clenched shut.

And then he stops, right in front of Albus, looming over him with an indecipherable expression on his sharp features.

"Albus," he drawls.

Albus can't help the small noise that comes from his throat. He's shaking, suddenly cold despite the alcohol and the warming charms and the fires, the _itch_ exponentially increasing under his skin. He wants to flee, and he wants to stand up and kiss him, and he wants to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, for this insane _want_ that's ruining his relationship with the entire Malfoy family, for an Obliviation Charm to make all of this just go away so everything can go back to normal.

He hears Andrew before he sees him (not that that's hard, considering that Albus can't tear his eyes away from Draco) as he exclaims, "Draco! Pleasure to see you again, though I hadn't known you were coming to this party."

Draco looks at Andrew flatly and replies, "I was invited, though I wasn't planning on attending. I'm taking Albus home though, so if you'd kindly fuck off, I'd be much obliged." Albus's eyes go wide, wider than Andrew's do even, because that sounds like a bloody proposition, but he knows that Draco means nothing like that. He's just looking out for his son's best friend, and to be honest, he's blunt enough to get the inevitably awkward conversation out of the way.

Albus can see how it would go too: ' _Yes, Albus, you have a bit of a pash, but it's quite time to put it aside. Mother is worried about you, Scorpius is getting irked with being brushed aside, and I am simply at ends with the proceedings. While it's flattering that I can attract the attentions of a younger man, you are my son's closest friend and my childhood rival's child, and even if I was so inclined to take a man to bed – which I am not, as a proper, straight pure-blood – you are much too young for me to consider such dalliances. Now pull yourself together and find yourself a new paramour to entice before you destroy the camaraderie of our family, if you please_.'

Fuck, but he's so not looking forward to this conversation.

"Come, Albus," Draco says, giving him a sharp, no-nonsense look before he turns away. Albus murmurs a hoarse goodbye to Andrew, who looks greatly disappointed as he holds the two untouched drinks in his hands, and then he follows Draco's lead. He's horribly graceless due to the erection (that's thankfully hidden beneath his robes) as well as the copious amount of alcohol he's swallowed down, but he still manages to keep up until they're past the gates of the estate and therefore past the wards blocking Apparition.

Draco grasps his forearm with a sigh and then Apparates them to the Manor.

Albus's stomach rolls but mercifully steadies itself with a few deep breaths, and then he pulls his arm away, glancing up at the Manor. It's mostly dark, this time of night, and Albus vaguely wonders if Narcissa's still up, listening to the Wireless as it goes through its standard holiday programming or perhaps reading a book with a cup of wine. He hopes she isn't, because the last thing he wants is to be seen like this. Draco already knows what's going on, but he certainly doesn't want Draco's mum to be privy to it as well. It's embarrassing enough as is.

They walk in silence past the gates, making their way to the Manor proper. There's no wind, but the air is still frigid, Albus's breath misting in the air in front of him, and he breathes in deeply in an effort to sober himself up. Or at least get his wits about him. He can't smell Draco out here, nor feel the warmth of his body due to the separation between them, but Albus is still highly conscious of the Malfoy patriarch beside him, his soft breaths, the crunch of gravel beneath his posh shoes, the rustle of his cloak. He so wants to reach out and push Draco against the hedges that line the walk to the Manor, pressing his prick against Draco's own until they're both panting for it. The bitter cold has wilted his erection down, but that doesn't change the fact that his drunken mind is still raring to go, blood churning in his veins and his skin _itching_ with the need to touch and take.

It's a mercy when they finally make it to the door, Draco echoing an absent greeting to the elf that opens the door, and then Draco says, "Let us have a nightcap in the library." Albus opens his mouth to decline, wanting more than anything to just run away and hide from this upcoming conversation, but he knows he can't. They need to get this out of the way so they can return to a semblance of normality. Eventually he just presses his lips together, staring at the spinning floor beneath him, and simply nods.

They make their way through the empty, familiar halls, and Albus takes a deep, fortifying breath as they enter the library, vowing to be as short with his words as possible so he can flee. He stops in the doorway as Draco tosses his cloak onto a the back of a chair and pours them both two fingers of what looks like whisky. Albus shrugs off his own cloak as well, feeling overheated with the dying fire and the arousal singing through his bloodstream, and then accepts the glass with a mutter of thanks, not able to quite meet Draco's eyes. Draco sighs again, and then turns on his heel towards the balcony, already pushing a hand into his pocket of his form-fitting trousers and pulling out a pack of fags.

Albus feels like he's drowning in molasses, and he curses whatever gods are out there, his prick already starting to fill again. Despite his better judgement, he follows Draco to the warded balcony silently, eyes focussed on Draco's long-fingered hands placing his whisky on a small table, pulling out a ciggie, and placing it in between his lips. He digs into his pockets again for a light (using wands to light a fag is generally a bad idea, Albus has heard), but Albus just exhales unsteadily and then steps closer, his free hand already pulling his own lighter out. He'd nicked it off a co-worker a few weeks ago and hasn't given it back, occasionally flicking it on to watch the flame, fantasising about older men with platinum blond hair and a cigarette between his lips, fantasising about _Draco Malfoy_.

Draco looks at him, silvery-grey eyes almost charcoal in the cold moonlight, and then stills, tilting his head a bit in acceptance. With slightly shaky fingers, Albus flicks the lighter, the warm, golden glow illuminating up Draco's sharp features. He's swaying slightly with drunken arousal but he can't stop staring as Draco leans forward, igniting the tip of the ciggie and inhaling deeply, eyes falling shut as the nicotine expands his lungs. Albus licks his dry lips as his grip slackens on the lighter, the flame going out and returning Draco's skin to a pale, luminescent glow.

Draco opens his eyes, the orbs dark.

Albus swallows down a moan that's fighting to break free and stumbles back a few steps. Draco reaches out to steady him and Albus can't help but hiss breathlessly, "Don't _fucking_ touch me." Draco inhales sharply at the tone of his voice and Albus clenches his fists, shaking from head to toe and too drunk to be in this situation. He hears himself continue in a wrecked whisper, close enough to smell Draco's spicy cologne and the musty cigarette smoke, "Don't touch me. Just...don't touch me. I'm not...I'm dru...I'm drunk and I can't control... _Draco_ —"

Suddenly, immediately after he hears Draco murmur something under his breath, he feels the cold shudder down his spine that's easily identifiable as a Sobering Charm, and it's both better and worse. Better because he can more easily control the impulses to just reach and _take_ , but worse because now everything is sharp and bright instead of blurred and vaguely dreamlike under the influence of alcohol. If anything, it heightens the _itch_ under his skin, and he lurches forward into Draco's space before he gets control over himself and takes another two stumbling steps back, practically crashing into the balcony door in his haste.

Then Draco, with his piercing eyes taking in every micro-expression that crosses Albus's face, takes a slow drag off his fag and asks in a low voice, smoke billowing from his mouth, "Now that you're in control of your mental facilities, do you still want me?"

Albus takes a deep breath, closing his eyes in defeated acceptance, and then answers simply, "Yes. I'm _so_ sorry."

Draco huffs, and Albus opens his eyes at that, a tad bit annoyed. It's not his fault that this...this _want_ just sort of happened one day, and he opens his mouth to retort, but instead, he feels confused, because he's never seen Draco look like this before, all still and intense and almost _heated_. Albus doesn't understand what in the fuck is happening, and he almost wishes that he were still drunk, because at least then he would've probably been unaware of it.

Then Albus's whole world tilts when Draco lifts the fag, takes a languid drag, and then says through the pale smoke, "What are you waiting for then?"

Albus stares at him for what feels like an age, his heart pounding in his throat and something bright like hope blooming in his chest, and then he advances hesitantly, lifting his own hands so he can trail shaking fingers down Draco's chest. The fabric is smooth and silky against his fingertips, and _fuck_ Albus wants this man. Draco's not pulling away, either, just watching him with those eyes of his, and Albus breathes, "Are you...this is okay? I can actually do this?"

A small, almost wicked smirk pops up on Draco's shapely lips, and he replies, "I would've hexed you otherwise, Albus."

Albus whimpers in the back of his throat and – there's no other way of putting it – simply attacks.

He grasps two twin handfuls of Draco's silky shirt and kisses him desperately, tasting the smoke on his tongue and feeling the warmth of his breath when they part for air, and Albus can't believe that this is happening, that Draco's allowing him to do this. It's intoxicating, feeling Draco's fingers in his messy hair as their tongues dance, and fucking hell, Albus is absolutely terrified that he's going to pop in his trousers without a single touch to his aching prick.

It's better than the fantasies, to be honest. He never expected Draco to be so demanding, physically guiding Albus's head with one hand to control the angle, pulling him close with that same grip so he can slot their legs together. He never expected that he'd get to feel the long line of Draco's half-hard prick against his hip, or the subtle movement of Draco's lungs expanding against Albus's own chest. It's delicious, and as he lets out a long groan when Draco's teeth pull at his bottom lip, he wonders if he's going to wake up with spunk-covered pyjamas, all alone in his Inverness flat. This entire situation is insane enough that it seems like a legitimate possibility.

Draco pulls away slightly, and Albus wonders if he pulling away because he wants to stop – half-hard prick aside, a snog is a snog, and it's natural for the body to respond even if the mind disagrees with the whole scenario. Instead of calling quits, though, Draco lifts his arm and takes a few puffs off the fag-end, reigniting the top of his nearly burnt-out cigarette. As he blinks slowly, eyes dark and pupils dilated with his own arousal ( _I did that_ , Albus thinks wildly), Draco murmurs languidly, "You like it when I smoke."

"Yes, but you're fit regardless," Albus replies, breathless and not bothering to hide it. Draco hums in reply, the sound a deep rumble, and he's clearly not surprised by the confirmation. He takes another drag, eyes burning into Albus's own, and then removes his hand from Albus's hair, letting it fall between them so he can slowly adjust himself in his trousers.

And Albus snaps, knees weak and so randy that it's almost painful. With a low gasp, he pushes at Draco's chest, leading them both backwards until Draco's lower legs hit one of the high-backed chairs on the balcony. Albus guides him to sit, his dry mouth suddenly flooded with saliva, because _fuck_ has he been daydreaming of doing this since the first bloody night he'd seen Draco Malfoy smoking, and he intends to make that a reality.

Albus stares Draco down and states hoarsely, "You are going to sit there and finish your cigarette, and I am going to blow you. I want your prick in my mouth and your come down my throat. Any questions?"

Draco shudders visibly, a weak and shaky exhale accompanying it, and then rasps, "No. By all means."

"Thank-fucking-God," Albus practically whines, and absently flicks his right arm out, his wand popping into his hand from the holster in his sleeve. He murmurs a quick Cushioning Charm on the ground and a small Numbing Charm on his throat, just enough to quell his gag reflex but not enough to take away the feeling of a prick in his mouth, and then he falls to his knees, the stone floor masked by the charm as he places his wand on the small table by the chair. Albus wants to tear off Draco's clothes and swallow him down without any fanfare, but he knows that this will be a one-off and wants to make it count.

He drags his palms up Draco's slender thighs, relishing the feel of expensive fabric on his skin, and then leans forward, letting his fingers dance up to Draco's waist. He drags more than pulls Draco's button-up out of his trousers, and at the first hint of skin he presses an open-mouthed kiss on the smooth, warm skin of Draco's stomach. He mouths at it as his fingers swiftly undo the buttons at the bottom, just enough to push the two flaps to the side. He drags his lips and tongue across the triangle of hairless skin that he can see, and he wonders if Draco's naturally hairless or regularly removes his body hair with the standard range of potions. He hasn't a preference either way (well, as long as there's a trim, for obvious reasons, since picking out hair from one's teeth mid-blowjob isn't sexy after all), and he is _so_ ready to see if that smoothness is similar on his prick.

Albus flicks the snaps open and pulls down the flies slowly, the sound muted under the loud breaths and wet smacks of his mouth against Draco's taut stomach. He hooks his fingers into the waistbands of Draco's trousers and tight pants, pulling lightly so Draco'll catch the hint. He does, lifting his hips up so Albus can drag the fabric down, but he loses focus when the fabric gets to Draco's knees, green eyes already soaking up the sight of a naked Draco Malfoy.

He barely notices when Draco manoeuvres his legs up so he can step out of the fabric. Draco's cock is _gorgeous_ , thin but long with a slight upward curve towards his stomach. The head's peeking out of the foreskin wetly, an enticing glimmer in the moonlight, and Albus's mouth waters for a taste. He doesn't deny himself, reaching for Draco's prick with one hand and tracing a prominent vein from the base to the tip with his tongue, while the other grasps a lean thigh. He takes in the flavour – fairly bland, with a hint of sweetness – as he pulls Draco's foreskin back, letting his tongue trace the smooth head and the ridge underneath.

Albus pulls away almost immediately though so he can run his nose through the neatly trimmed hair above Draco's prick, press kisses to the crease of his thigh, bite the sharp protrusion of his hip, and even trail his tongue in between his balls with just the slightest pressure. He simultaneously massages Draco's thighs, occasionally letting his fingernails scratch lightly at the sparse blond hair covering the muscles. He can feel the restraint in Draco's tense body, the shudders underneath his skin as he holds himself steady, and gods, but Albus's own cock is full to bursting. He drops one hand to press the heel of his palm into his prick, moaning against Draco's hip with a shaky exhale, and then begins working on his own trousers. As he creeps closer to Draco's prick, he finally manages to free his cock from his pants, giving it a slow pull. He looks up at Draco, pleased and aroused by the blown pupils and the furious flush on his face, and says roughly, "Talk to me."

Draco lets out a long, almost tortured groan when Albus finally wraps his mouth around the glans of his prick, letting his tongue rub and flick the frenulum lazily as he maintains eye contact. Albus echoes with his own groan, chest and throat vibrating, and he feels Draco's fingers thread through his messy hair. He's not tugging ( _yet_ , Albus hopes), and his hips are still against the seat, so Albus simply relaxes with a sigh from his nose and slowly begins sinking down, dragging his tongue against Draco's foreskin and the underside of his prick as he goes. As much as he's mentally raring to go for the root, he knows better than to rush into it. He might have done the slight charm to numb his throat, but it still takes time to take a cock comfortably. He slowly slides up and down, taking more and more of Draco's prick as he descends, until his lips meet his fingers that are wrapped around the base.

"Fucking _hell_ ," Draco breathes when Albus hums in the back of his throat, eyelashes fluttering as he settles there, letting his throat get used to the intrusion. He resists the urge to swallow the saliva that's starting to pool into his mouth, allowing it to coat Draco's prick and slide underneath his hand as everything gets more wet. It helps the glide, though it's better with lube, and satisfied with how relaxed his throat feels, he pulls off completely, though he keeps his hand at the base of Draco's prick, his thumb rubbing against the prominent vein on the underside.

He takes deep breaths, laying his cheek against Draco's thigh and letting the air cool the saliva on his prick. He whimpers when he twists his fingers around the head of his own prick and then manages to say, "You can pull if you want, fuck my throat. I like it that way. I'll tap your thigh if I need a break."

Draco laughs, a slightly high-pitched and incredulous sound, and replies with an almost _awed_ tone, "Circe, you won't need a break. If you let me do that, I'll pop in twelve seconds flat."

Albus grins, then gasps at a particularly good pull, and says honestly, "That's alright. I—oh _fuck_ —I won't be far behind."

He feels Draco shift underneath him, clearly wanting to see Albus pulling himself, but Albus doesn't give him the chance to move, instead going back to work now that his breath's back. He lifts his body up for a better angle and then dives down, taking him all the way to his fingers once again and sucking. He bobs up and down, alternating between hollowed cheeks with suction and hums in the back of his throat, his hand moving at the base in figure eights. He can feel both of Draco's long-fingered hands tangle in his hair now – he vaguely wonders where the fag's gone but dismisses the thought almost immediately as unimportant – and then he groans deeply when Draco begins guiding Albus's head, urging him to move faster and even deeper.

Albus's hand flies over his weeping prick now, caught up in the smell of Draco's sweat and skin and the feeling of being controlled, lost in the sounds that Draco lets out. It makes the other sounds, the weird and awkward sounds that inherently come with giving head, less distracting, and he feels light-headed, both from the lack of sufficient oxygen and the fact that he is _so fucking close_ to coming. He can't tell how long it lasts, minutes or hours or even days, his concept of time completely warped as he floats on the cusp of orgasm and he sucks and cries out around the mouthful of prick. It's positively soaking now, saliva dripping down his chin and his eyes running, but fuck he loves this, hearing and feeling a man ( _this_ man) fall apart at the seams as he sucks them down.

"Fuck-fuck- _fuck_ , shit, _Albus_ ," Draco forces out, his voice thin and wrecked, and just by the tenseness of Draco's body and the twitching of the prick in his mouth, Albus knows he's close. Thank God too, because Albus is already bowing into himself, dancing on the edge, and he refuses to come until Draco's gotten off. He takes it as the warning it is, but instead of pulling off, he simply moves his hand from the base of Draco's prick to the furred balls that are tight against Draco's body, cupping them both and pulling just enough as he lowers his mouth the last few inches, lips pressed against the short hair and that cock deep in his throat.

Then he hums one last time and Draco cries out loudly, body spasming and pulsing as he begins coming, prick throbbing in Albus's mouth and throat. Draco's prick is so far down his throat that he can't taste it ( _fuck he wants to taste it_ ), but Draco's fingers are like talons in Albus's hair, thrusting shallowly as he rides out his orgasm, so Albus wouldn't be able to pull away even if he wanted to (and he doesn't, not even to taste). Albus takes it and takes it, his short and choppy breaths through his nose loud as he chases his own climax. He's so close, but he can't...it's _right there_ , and he can't get there. He fucking _needs_ to come, needs to get off before he burns out of his goddamn skin, and when Draco finally relaxes his hold on Albus's head, Albus pulls off as gently as he can manage before he pushes himself up and straddles Draco's lax body, digging his knees into the padding of the chair and desperately wanking against Draco's heaving stomach.

He can hear himself begging hoarsely, eyes clenched shut as he buries his face into the smooth fabric of Draco's button-up, slightly damp from sweat. He inhales deeply through his nose, taking in the scent of sex and spice and cigarette smoke, and suddenly Draco's pulling his hair again, kissing him filthily as his left hand joins Albus's right. "Do it," he rasps against Albus's mouth between tongue-filled kisses, driving the pace of their hands. His gaze is liquid mercury, dark and intent on Albus's face as he says, "Fucking do it, Albus, come all over me, get it all over me, _do it_."

And Albus does. He throws his head back and arches his spine, not making a sound except a weak exhale of blessed relief. The curl of heat at the base of his spine and in his balls flares out in pulse after pulse, his body shuddering in between, and Draco works him through it, Albus's hand practically useless underneath. The fingernails of his left hand are probably gouging into Draco's shoulder blades but he can't stop, his body as rigid as a board as he rides it out.

Albus bats Draco's hand away after a long moment, laughing breathlessly at the oversensitivity that feels almost like a tickle, and slumps into Draco's arms, his fingers idly trailing through the come on Draco's stomach and chest. Somehow, he's still half-hard, and he absently presses it against Draco's hip as he lays a kiss on Draco's collarbone.

"Christ in a fucking handbasket," Albus sighs contentedly, his voice utterly ruined from the blowjob. He likes the sound of his voice after oral, always has, and Draco's fingers clench into Albus's ribs, a soft hum of concern coming from his throat. Before the predictable spiel can come from the Malfoy patriarch's lips, Albus continues hoarsely, "I'm fine, you wanker. That was _brilliant_. Give me five minutes and we can go again."

This time it's Draco that laughs, a deep rumble in his chest that Albus can feel down to his bones, and then he replies quietly, "I'd like to get you to a bed first, and besides, my refractory period isn't quite that short."

Albus beams against Draco's shoulder, says "Deal" as brightly as he can manage with his well-fucked throat, and despite having no idea what the cold light of morning will bring, he is hopeful that everything'll work out in the end.

But first, he's taking Draco Malfoy to bed.


End file.
